There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Canobie Lee,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have you

JOHN BARLEYCORN.

THERE went three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;
And they have sworn a solemn oath,
John Barleycorn shall die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,

Put clods upon his head;

And they have sworn a solemn oath,
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And showers began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,

And he grew thick and strong;
His head well arm'd with pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter'd mild,

And he grew wan and pale;

His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

JOHN BARLEYCORN.

His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They took a weapon long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgery.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgel'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They fill'd up then a darksome pit
With water to the brim,

And heaved in poor John Barleycorn,
To let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;

But the miller used him worst of all,

For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they have taken his very heart's blood,
And drunk it round and round:
And so farewell, John Barleycorn!

Thy fate thou now hast found.

THE WOODLAND HALLO.

IN our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood, I am mistress, no mother have I;

Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good,

And kind is my lover, hard by:

They both work together beneath the green shade,

Both woodmen, my father and Joe;

Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made

So much of a laugh or- Hallo!

From my basket at noon they expect their supply,
And with joy from my threshold I spring;

For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving high,
And Echo that sings as I sing.

Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food, As I call the dear name of my Joe;

His musical shout is the pride of the wood,

And my heart leaps to hear the

Hallo!

Simple flowers of the grove, little birds live at ease,

I wish not to wander from you;

I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees,
For I know that my Joe will be true.